


Backseat Driver

by pantherophis



Category: Shin Megami Tensei: Digital Devil Saga
Genre: M/M, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-22 16:19:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2514134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pantherophis/pseuds/pantherophis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They haven’t actually told anyone they’re dating, because they aren’t, but the workplace rumour happened to vaguely turn out to be true. It’s easier to let people think they’re going steady instead of just fucking like animals every other night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Backseat Driver

**Author's Note:**

> [trans Sheffield AU. set before their backstory in DDS2. warning for misogynistic slurs]

Sometimes after work, they fuck.

Heat cringes – he hates that word, but there isn’t a better one to describe what it is they do. It’s not making love; there’s no emotion, or tenderness from either of them. It’s rough, animalistic, and he always ends up leaving the bedroom bruised or bleeding. Sometimes it’s not even in the bedroom. It’s not usually up to him.

As soulless as it is, he can’t complain about the sex itself. Physically, Sheffield is a catch, and as unpleasant as he can be, he gets horny as often as Heat does. Getting off inside of someone else is still better than into his hand.

He picks up Sheffield by his work locker and drives home. Nobody talks.

In the elevator up to the apartment, Sheffield makes a nasty face to himself. At first Heat thinks it’s directed at him, but Sheffield catches him from the corner of his eye and his face softens. Heat blinks in surprise.

“What’s wrong?” he asks hesitantly. 

Sheffield scowls again, looking away. “Nothing. I was just thinking about that bitch from human resources today.”

“Who?”

“She didn’t come to your faculty. My manager basically sicced her on psych, though.” Sheffield casts a half-hearted glare at him. “Lucky bastard.”

Heat raised a brow. “What did she do?”

“Almost nothing,” Sheffield suddenly snarls. “Until she makes some off-hand comment at me, about how I’m ‘beautiful’ and ‘sensitive’ for a man. Aside from being completely unprofessional, what the fuck does that even mean? Sensitive for a man. Fucking bitch.”

Heat might have laughed if Sheffield didn’t sound so agitated. “It’s probably because you were being nice to her,” he offers.

“I was manipulating her.”

“I know,” Heat says, somewhat sadly.

The conversation doesn’t ease Sheffield’s mood. His jaw and fists are still clenched. They get off the elevator and Sheffield storms ahead as far as his legs can carry him before Heat catches up in long strides.

“You’re mad about being called beautiful, aren’t you?” Heat asks cautiously when they reach the door. Sheffield fumbles and drops his keys.

“Shut the fuck up, O’Brien,” he mutters, waiting for Heat to pick them up.

-

They don’t talk again until after Sheffield’s nightly shower. Heat is sprawled out on the couch, one hand lazily on the remote. Steam billows out into the living room as Sheffield trudges out, wearing only a loose black band shirt that exposes his clavicles. Heat does a double take as Sheffield sits one couch cushion away.

“Is that my shirt?” he asks, careful not to sound too accusatory, since Sheffield’s bad mood radiates off of him in black waves.

“Yeah.” 

Heat pretends to flip through the channels with interest until he formulates the right sentence. “What made you want to wear it?”

“Would you give it a fucking rest?” Sheffield says, sounding more tired than angry. “You know why.”

“I don’t, actually.”

Sheffield turns to look at him, reading his face with dark narrowed eyes, before slumping back into the cushion in exasperation. “Doctors.”

Heat smiles wryly. “We’re not mind readers like you.” He swears he sees a tiny tug at the edge of Sheffield’s mouth. 

“All my clothes look too nice,” Sheffield finally says, eyes closed. “I needed something ugly.”

As Heat opens his mouth to retort, he registers what he means. He closes his mouth and leans back, at a loss for words. With Heat’s silence, Sheffield keeps speaking.

“I don’t expect you to understand, and for once it has nothing to do with your Neanderthal-like brain processes. This is something you’ll never understand.”

Heat fumbles with the remote. “I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Sheffield says coldly. “Change the damn channel. I want to watch Dr. Phil.”

-

Heat is vaguely aware of passing out at some point with the television in the background. He blinks a few times, realizing Sheffield’s show is over, and he’s still next to him on the couch. He’s staring blankly at the screen with half-lidded eyes, his hand hovering over between his now crossed legs. Heat’s eyes flicker down to Sheffield’s hand as he realizes he’s touching himself. He’s not making any noise – no panting, no moans. Heat thinks he actually looks irritated.

“What’s wrong?” Heat asks for the second time that night. His voice is thick with sleep.

“Nothing is wrong.”

“You look pissed off.” Heat props himself up properly and rubs his eyes. 

“Will you get off my fucking back, O’Brien? Christ,” Sheffield snaps. 

Heat doesn’t reply. He doesn’t take Sheffield’s outburst to heart, either; he realizes his shitty attitude is still directed at the human resources woman and Heat is just his punching bag. He lets his eyes shut again.

“Don't fall back asleep,” Sheffield mutters. “I need you.”

It might have been sweet if Heat didn’t know Sheffield was only talking about his body.

“You need my dick,” Heat mutters. As soon as he says it, he knows it’s a mistake.

“I could fucking kill you right now. I’m not in the mood for your bullshit.”

“Serph, I’m tired,” Heat states, opening his eyes to face his furious looking roommate. Aside from being obviously angry, Heat could smell the arousal on him too. “Can’t you do it by yourself?”

Sheffield’s forearm twitches like it’s going to lash out and smack him, but he remains still. “Fuck you.” 

Heat grimaces, regretting even asking, because they both know he can’t.

-

Sometimes he realizes that it must seem strange that his – _“boyfriend”_ is too romantic; _“friends-with-benefits”_ implied they were friends at all; _“partner”_ , he guesses is the most appropriate term – male partner has breasts and a vagina. Nobody at work knows about Sheffield except Heat, and he supposes it doesn’t matter anyway because their colleagues just think they’re both gay. Which they are. So maybe it's not that strange after all.

-

They haven’t actually told anyone they’re dating, because they aren’t, but the workplace rumour happened to vaguely turn out to be true. It’s easier to let people think they’re going steady instead of just fucking like animals every other night.

-

Sheffield is still angry two days later, but when they’re at work, he’s all smiles. Heat can see through his façade, and he thinks it’s a miracle that everyone else can’t by now.

When they get home, Sheffield hangs his coat and heads straight for the shower. Heat doesn’t think anything of it until he pads out fifteen minutes later wearing a different shirt of his. It’s baggy, even on Heat, so it dwarfs Sheffield. His shoulders poke out and his collarbone is far above the collar of the shirt. There’s a number of badly drawn stick figures on it and the name of a festival or something; the shirt is so old Heat can’t even remember.

“This is the ugliest shirt you own,” Sheffield remarks.

Heat’s eyes are drawn to the smooth skin of his shoulders. The scent of warmth and soap wafts around his freshly washed body.

“What?” Sheffield snaps.

“Nothing. You look good.”

Sheffield’s narrows his dark eyes, like a hawk about to kill its prey. “Why don’t you just say it,” he mutters slowly. 

“Say what?” Heat barks. “Serph, I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

Sheffield’s eyes flash with something Heat can’t read. His arm twitches again, wanting to reach out and do _something_ to somebody, but he retains his composure.

“You think I look good?” he asks.

Heat blinks, wary but firm. “Yes.”

“Even with this hideous shirt on?”

Heat smiles drily, pointing to his exposed skin. “Especially with that fucking ugly shirt on.”

“Describe me physically with one adjective.”

Suddenly Heat realizes why Sheffield is still upset. His eyes soften slightly and he puts a hand on his shoulder, which Sheffield doesn’t bat away. He suddenly looks so small. A strange pain struggles in Heat’s stomach, like a worm. He doesn’t understand why.

“Cool,” Heat finally says.

After an incredulous pause, Sheffield actually laughs. It’s not the same fake laugh he does at work, or the giggle he does when he’s manipulating people. It’s not even the cold, one-breath laugh he does when he’s making of Heat. For some reason, that makes the weird sensation in Heat’s gut worse.

“ _Cool?_ ” Sheffield mimics. The rage in his eyes had died down. He looks nicer like this, Heat realizes. “God, O’Brien, you really are an idiot.”

“What?” Heat asks genuinely. “Was that not the right answer?”

Sheffield has a half-smirk on his lips. “It was fine.”

-

The sex they have that night isn’t “fucking.” Heat isn’t sure what it is, exactly, but it’s not that.

Sheffield wraps his arms around Heat’s neck as he thrusts in and out of him. He’s not yelling at him to go faster, or deeper. He’s not doing any of what Heat half-affectionately refers to as “backseat fucking.” Instead, he’s completely silent except for the tiny groans when Heat pushes into him. At one point Heat realizes Sheffield is running his hands through his hair without yanking it. The sensation in his stomach from before flutters violently as Sheffield murmurs his name - _"Heat"_ \- into his ear, and he comes inside of him.

It's not fucking, but he could get used to it.


End file.
